gunmetal bones and wolf's teeth

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame They drifted, dying, a demise, back into ether, back into stone, back into moss, back into fey raptures and reveries; the screams gone, but the echoes, the chasms, had yet to leave, a cluster of haunting notes that would rivet and lacerate his bones on quieter evenings. He exhaled, a long, wavering, withering sigh, the force of his incantations returning back to his figure, the familiar roll of his shoulders, the blistering wake of their vehemence building along his veins once more. Then there was only the wolf and him – the midnight oils, the twilight expanse, the wild, gaping unknown; his eyes maneuvered back to the predator, watching every move it made, in case he was suddenly the next target of the jaws, of the fangs, of the teeth, if it interpreted new threats amidst the old. He should’ve expected the shift: he’d witnessed enough, known enough, individuals capable of such feats; it had loomed in the back of his mind, a pressing possibility, let go under the circumstances of dwindling lights and swinging lanterns; infernal ghosts and gathered wraiths. It didn’t cease his eyes from widening slightly, sharply, before narrowing back – a woman appearing where the wolf had stood, small, petite, could’ve been much a fey or sprite herself. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it – didn’t have a name, didn’t have any other form of recognition. At her thank you, he tilted his head, segments of the stoic, nonchalant beast vanished, a conjuring of the curious warrior laden in the midst instead. “You are welcome,” he nodded and bobbed his head, accepted the acknowledgments, understood full well the power and precision of poignant, bestial, barbaric requiems. He didn’t ask her what she’d heard. “Will-o-wisps,” he responded; only lacking ignorance on the subject because he’d seen them before, because they’d scraped and blistered and tore their way through his expanse seasons ago. “They prey upon those in the wood. Seem to enjoy trickery.” Enablers of lies, tormentors out of mischief and mayhem. His gaze slunk back to hers, proffering introductions because he didn’t know what else to do in the murk. “I am Deimos.” Then he paused, not prying, not deluding, but ensuring. “You all right?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace